


5 Times They Didn't Mean It And 1 Time They Did

by Sunche



Category: Kasabian
Genre: 5 Times, M/M, Mistletoe, Tom really likes kissing people, a fuckload of OCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3087002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunche/pseuds/Sunche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tom and Serge share five kisses that don't mean anything. Or do they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Times They Didn't Mean It And 1 Time They Did

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this story a lot earlier, before Christmas even, but then I forgot.   
> Big thanks go out to my beta Karin who also provided me with all the old Kasabian fic this fandom has produced so far, so I could get inspired <3  
> Most of the characters in this are made up because I'm really bad at the history of this band.

 

 

**1**

 

It happens for the first time when they're 13. When birthday parties stop being all-boys or all-girls and everyone hopes to make the most of these few hours. There's going to be girls there. Girls with fruity-smelling lips and short skirts, dancing. Tom likes girls a lot, and so does Serge, and they make a pact to kiss at least one of them tonight, because why not? They're 13 and it's high time to maybe make some first experiences and maybe get a first girlfriend sometime soon.

It's dark in Stacey's basement, but there's disco lights and pop tunes and someone slams an empty coca-cola bottle on the floor and someone else turns down the music for an announcement.

Tom has hoped for this game to happen because it increases the chances of kissing some girls, maybe even with tongue, who knows?

Stacey kisses Neil who kisses Helen who kisses someone Tom doesn't know who kisses someone else Tom doesn't know who kisses Mary who kisses Stacey (again!) and it's making Tom tingly… girls kissing is nice to look at. Stacey then, finally, manages to make the bottle point to Tom. Her lips taste like vanilla. God, Stacey is cute as hell, isn't she?

Tom smiles to himself as he spins the bottle with a twist of his wrist. He could get used to this. The bottle spins with everyone watching excitedly…and spins…and spins… and lands on Sergio.

…Really? Really??

The inevitable chuckles become audible, silenced by slaps from others. Everyone's grinning at them, but Tom just looks at Serge. He doesn't look entirely comfortable, really. It hasn't been his turn yet, and now he has to kiss Tom before even kissing a girl. It's not really fair, Tom understands, but they can't back out now. Luckily, they're sitting next to each other anyway, so Tom quickly leans in and presses a kiss to Serge's mouth, which opens in surprise (where this surprise comes from, Tom doesn't know…he knew what was gonna happen). Serge tastes like pretzel sticks and Tom smiles at him when he retreats, making sure Serge is not freaking out or anything. They're best friends, why would they not kiss sooner or later? Serge breathes out slowly and crawls forward to give the bottle a spin. And when it lands on a girl, Tom can't help but smile. They've finished their mission for tonight, but it doesn't mean there's not room for more stolen kisses. These forced kisses don't mean anything.

 

 

**2**

 

Tom would never admit it, but red lipstick is maybe not the worst prank anyone has ever played on Serge. It doesn't look completely ridiculous, if he's being honest with himself.

"I will never let this horrible person sleep in this house again," Serge announces, but his mum only laughs. His cousin did a great job applying waterproof lipstick to his mouth when he was fast asleep the night before, and not even Tom heard her tiptoeing in. He's just grateful she didn't pull a prank on him as well.

"I think it looks cute," his mum smiles.

"And it's cherry-flavoured! Please appreciate my effort!," Cathy chimes in, sticking her head into the kitchen where they're all sitting.

"It is…," Serge mumbles. "But I still want it off!"

"Is it really?," Tom asks. "You should be grateful and appreciate her effort." He grins.

"You're all mad!" Serge glares at Tom. "I expected more from you, _best friend_." Tom can hear the italics dripping from his friend's mouth. "If you like cherry flavour so much, maybe _you_ should wear it, hmm?"

"No way!," Cathy says. "I'm not letting any of you touch my lipstick, god knows what you're gonna do to it…"

"Well then… I need to take more drastic measures to punish my friend for betraying me," Serge announces.

"Like… what?" Tom stares at him. Serge has almost mastered the art of looking very menacing (he's been practising for the past six years they've known each other, and Tom doesn't know where this is gonna go by the time they're 30). It doesn't make Tom feel entirely safe right now. Serge's never been one to pull pranks or plot revenge against people, but Tom has been the victim of many a huggle attack or random tackle after saying something wrong. It's all been playful, though. They don't fight often, and when they do, it's mostly Tom fighting and saying all kinds of stupid things and Serge just trying to solve the problem somehow. Serge isn't a good person to fight with – when Tom blames him, Serge blames himself, too, and apologises, even if it's not his fault in the first place. You can't really fight with Sergio. Many people have said how much they're bickering like an old married couple. They're 17. Again, Tom doesn't know where this is gonna go by the time they're 30.

The way Serge is looking at him now, however, most likely means a tackle to the floor and a tickle attack or something. Something Tom would like to definitely avoid.

"You wanna taste the cherry? Well I'm gonna make you!," he says and leaps at Tom, who quickly tries to escape and runs out of the kitchen.

He manages to barely pass Cathy when Serge catches him in the corridor and pulls him into a headlock. "Say one wrong thing and I'm gonna kiss ya, you bastard," he growls.

Tom chuckles and chokes at the same time. Kissing is gonna be his punishment? Well, if he could somehow avoid this…

"Tom, are you still appreciating my effort?," Cathy asks from somewhere behind them. Tom can't see a thing, only Serge's side, really.

"Y-yes-," he chokes out, which is, admittedly, not the best answer he could have given, because Serge drops him WWE-style and straddles him, sitting on Tom's arms so he can't move.

"You asked for it," Serge simply says and grabs Tom's face, planting a big wet kiss on his mouth.

"Ewww!!," Tom yelps, pulling a face, even though it wasn't that bad, really. It's not like he hasn't kissed Serge like, years ago.

"You really kissed him, oh my  _ god _ !," Cathy yells and stares at them. "You're so gay, I love you, oh god."

"Fuck off," Serge mumbles and quickly gets up. Tom is sitting up as well, back hurting from where it hit the floor.

"Okay, sorry, you're my favourite cousin, so I'll let you have access to my make-up remover," Cathy smirks.

"You literally only wanted to see us kiss, you sneaky arse!," Serge says and Cathy laughs in his face.

"Of course. Like I don't have better things to do on a Sunday morning. To be clear: I don't, and I did." She rolls her eyes and mentions Serge to follow her into the bathroom for a make-up removal.

Watching them leave, Tom realises one thing: he was so caught up in the fact of Serge kissing him on the floor that he forgot to check the flavour. He pulls in his lower lip for a quick taste, lets his tongue flick over it and savours the horribly artificial cherry flavour. Tom really needs a brain-mouth-filter to prevent things like this to happen in the future. His back is still aching, but the taste will stay on his lips for a bit longer than that. Still. The kiss didn't mean anything.

 

 

**3**

 

He's drunk. Completely, inevitably, shitfaced drunk. He's drunk and everyone at this party is cute, which is a problem, because Tom loves being physical with people a bit too much, maybe.

"Tommy, stop walking around kissing everyone," Dibs protests and wriggles out of Tom's hold. He manages to turn his face enough for Tom's kiss to land only on his cheek, and shoves him back against the fridge gently. "You're drunk."

Tom grins. "I knew that." He points a finger at Dibs. "I love everyone in this bar!"

"We're still not in a bar… Jesus, Tom, get a grip," Dibs sighs and pops a cheese cube from the buffet in his mouth. "Go annoy someone else."

And Tom does. He mostly doesn't realise that he's annoying unless someone politely (or not so politely) points it out to him. Tonight, he really couldn't care less. He just loves house parties too much to care about his alcohol consumption. You'd think with 21 you'd know how well you can hold your drink, but Tom really can't.

He finds Mary with an empty drink in her hand and decides to take her for a dance on the makeshift dancefloor that barely anyone is using. No one in their friend group's drunk enough to embarrass themselves by dancing to shitty music. No one except Tom. Maybe he did drink everything before anyone else could and now he's the only person drunk enough to actually enjoy the party. He doesn't know. And doesn't really care too much.

"Tom, no… not now," Mary pleads, but she's smiling. She is embarrassed, Tom can see it (though he can barely see anything else, it's all a blur, really), but she lets herself be spun around and moves to the music. Tom's not the only one enjoying himself here, bless her.

It only takes one or two people to make others storm the dancefloor as well, knowing they will still not be as embarrassing as Tom himself, probably. In a moment of ecstasy, Tom grabs Mary and kisses her. It means nothing, he's not really into her, she's amazing and pretty, but he's just not into her. It means nothing.

She's still laughing.

"You're crazy!," she giggles and spins away from Tom to join others.

Tom is crazy. He can live with that. It's nothing. He's stopped counting how many people he's kissed tonight. Then again… he probably never even started counting at all.

He spots Serge near the balcony door and swerves through the crowd, over to him. He hasn't seen his best friend in an hour.

"Sergiooooooooooooooooooo," he sings and wrap his arms tightly around the guy who used to be so tiny, so much smaller than him. He's become weirdly tall, and he's weirdly annoyed as well right now.

"Whazzup," Tom asks, nuzzling his face against Serge's chest. He does that a lot. Mostly Serge hugs back, but not tonight.

"You okay, mate?"

Serge doesn't answer, he's doing something with his hands behind Tom's back that he can't see.

"Nineteen," Serge says, dropping his arms by his sides.

"Nineteen what?"

Tom retreats and grabs the paper in Serge's hand. There's 19 tally marks on it.

"What's this, Serge?" He looks up at his best friend.

"Chris said you'd probably break yer own record in kissing as many people as possible in one night. So after we witnessed the first four, we decided to keep score," Serge explains. He doesn't look particularly happy with the result.

"Nineteen???"

"Nineteen."

When Tom said he stopped counting, he didn't really think someone else would have started, really.

"Wow." He's impressed by himself, if he's being honest. "How many people are we?"

"Well, we used to be about 26, but some of 'em have left, so I think… about 21."

"Wait, if I kiss one more person, I'll have kissed everyone at this party? Excluding myself, of course… can't kiss meself… too bad, really…," Tom muses. How does one kiss oneself? He doesn't think that's possible. But he has a streak to maintain!

"Who didn't I kiss yet?"

Serge is silent and avoids his eyes.

"You know more about it than I do, mate, c'mon, I wanna do this!," Tom pleads. He's desperately trying to remember anything, but he can maybe recall eight or nine of the kisses. But then…

"Did I kiss you yet?"

Serge slowly takes a step backwards and opens the balcony door.

"I didn't, did I? Are you the only one left?"

Serge stumbles backwards onto the balcony, failing to close the door between them. "I don't know what yer on about, mate…", he says, but Tom is already on the balcony as well.

"If I had, you'd have said it. Serge. C'mooon." Tom is pouting and doing the puppy eyes (he's been told he's very good at it) while trying to grab Serge. And balconies are only so big, aren't they? Serge is forced against the little table when Tom corners him.

"Not even Karloff managed to stop me, and you know how aggressively defensive he can be," Tom says with a grin. Serge mumbles something that sounds like '…wanted it', but Tom doesn't quite get it. He's got a bigger task to manage now.

"It will be over in a second, don't worry," Tom coos as he pulls Serge toward him. The kiss only lasts a split second. Serge's lips taste like Gin and Tonic.

"See, it wasn't that bad." Tom smiles widely at Serge and gives him some space.

"Yeah. It wasn't." Serge grumpily draws a line through the last four tally marks and pockets the paper.

"Cheer up, Number Twenty," Tom teases and makes his way through the balcony door. "It didn't mean anything."

 

 

**4**

 

Whoever thought it was a good idea to put a mistletoe in their flat must be a maniac.

Whoever thought it was an even better idea to bring one to Serge's 27th birthday party, which happens to be only one and a half weeks before Christmas, must be an even bigger maniac.

And whoever thought everyone would avoid stepping under it, and avoid having to kiss someone they didn't want to kiss, would be proved wrong.

It turns out to be generally well-accepted, and a lot of people kiss that night. It sparks a lot of discussions about how many non-English traditions they're supposed to care about, and a lot more discussions and tales about where the tradition even came from.

Its ridiculous place just behind the front door of the flat forces Serge to kiss everyone that arrives at the party, though he decides to go for the cheek only. When Serge has become too busy making sure all his guests are enjoying themselves and everyone is comfortable, Tom takes over letting the guests in and obnoxiously kissing all of them on the mouth. Tom's always been a big fan of kissing, and no one had ever seemed to question it.

"Are you going around kissing people again, Tommy?," Serge asks, appearing in the narrow corridor as the last arriving guests are taking off their coats with awkwardness plastered all over their faces.

"I'm not going around!," Tom insists. "I happen to stand under the mistletoe a lot, birthday boy." He might be a tad too smug about all this, but it's a great excuse kissing people – even when it includes Serge's cousin, who was, after eight years, still making fun of Tom for liking cherry flavour a bit too much. Which is why she forced her mouth on him without a warning. Her lipstick tasted like lipstick. It was disgusting. She laughed at him.

 

It's past four when the last guests have left and Tom is being nice and caring, accompanying the most drunk guests downstairs and into a taxi. Tom is also being stupid because he's forgotten his keys and has to ring the bell at 4 AM, but he really wants to get out of the snow and back into his flat.

Serge is not less stupid, opening the door downstairs but not the one upstairs.

"Mate, open up!," Tom sighs, knocking. Then ringing the bell upstairs.

He's been standing in the stairwell for two minutes when finally he hears a loud thud and someone scrambling to get to the door.

"Shit, mate, I fell asleep in the kitchen," Serge apologises and runs a hand over his face. He looks incredibly exhausted. "I'm so sorry, Tommy."

Tom shakes his head. "It's all right, but if I caught a cold, it's your fault entirely." He kicks off his shoes, but has no chance to go anywhere. Serge's arms have already closed around him, almost lifting him up, and he's on tiptoes before he even knows what's happening.

"I'm sorry, I love ya, thanks for the party, yer the best mate anyone could wish for, Tommy, I know I don't say that a lot, but please know—"

"Oh shut the fuck up, will ya," Tom says. "It's ok–"

Serge is the one shutting him up now, with no less than a kiss, warm and grateful and completely surprising. He doesn't taste like anything this time. Just himself.

"Thought we might end this party with a proper use of that silly thing," Serge smiles, pointing up at the mistletoe. Right. There was a reason for that. Not just to shut Tom up. Why is Serge so beautiful? It's ridiculous. Must be the light. Or maybe Tom is more drunk than he thought.

"I mean, it doesn't mean anything anyway." He lets go of Tom and staggers into his bedroom. "Let's take care of the mess tomorrow," he yawns before closing the door.

Tom needs a minute to compose himself before heading into his own bedroom as well. Right. There was nothing to it. He's been kissing people all day. It doesn't mean anything.

 

 

**5**

 

Adrenaline has always been one of Tom's favourite hormones. He loves nothing more than riding rollercoasters, kicking people's arses at video games, and being on stage. Nothing gives him as much joy as seeing people looking up to him, admiring him, screaming for him. For them. Some nights, he can't believe this is actually happening, that they're on their way to become one of Britain's biggest rock bands. Some nights he goes along with it, trying to get used to this. It's hard, even if it doesn't look like it. Tom knows most people see him as a happy, hyperactive kid in a grown man's body – which he is, no doubt about it. He wishes, sometimes, that he was more like Sergio. Quieter, more reserved, and less likely to lose his mind over all this. He's been the one to calm Tom down, in good as well as in bad times, when Tom was close to losing it completely.

Not on stage, though. Serge has slowly evolved from being the quiet guitarist, letting Tom do his thing, to being a co-frontman – all that in a matter of years. Tom is aware none of the press is really giving a fuck about Ian or Dibs, and he always feels sorry for them, but he also knows them well enough to know they're happy just to be there. They have less hassle to get to interviews, acoustic sessions and even photo shoots, and if writing and playing songs is all they want from life, so be it. They're keeping Tom from freaking out, too. Everyone in his life is.

So they're ending their festival set tonight, in front of multiple ten thousand people, cheers filling their ears, flags everywhere, the crowd still singing along even though the closing song is finished. It's amazing. Tom applauds back at them, searching random faces, pointing at some of them to make them feel special. His look falls back on Serge who's making the crowd raise their hands in waves.

Chants of 'Ser-gi-o! Ser-gi-o!' reach his ears, and Serge starts smiling widely. It's ridiculous, Tom thinks sometimes, how his best mate managed to go from tiny Italian striker putting a hat trick past him on the football field to mysterious skeleton prince in about 20 years. Ridiculous, but no less amazing. Sometimes he's overcome with love for Serge so much that he can barely handle it, and it's just gotten worse and worse every year. Even in public. _Especially_ in public. But then, who cares, really? Tom has found he doesn't really give a fuck about anyone's opinion, except Sergio's. He's stopped counting how many people have told them to 'get a room' in the time they've known each other, how many times he's randomly started kissing Serge's face just because he felt like it, how many times Serge has lifted him up and spun him around or just randomly carried him somewhere, and how many times they've been told they were actually an old married couple (the latter number must have risen by 100% in the past few years).

Tom is overcome by a wave of affection, and mixed with the adrenaline of playing a huge festival set, the urge to kiss Serge for no reason is mighty big right now. Mostly he doesn't even think about what the fuck he's doing, he just does it without thinking of the consequences.

He tackles Serge from the side, grabbing his sides as he does so often, and nuzzles against his bony shoulder.

Serge laughs, ruffling his hair. "Alright, mate?"

Yeah, Tom is alright. So alright that he just kisses his best friend in front all these people. Fuck them. Fuck everyone, really. Serge tastes like sweat and summer.

He smiles at Tom weirdly when they part, before hugging him tightly, lifting him up and spinning him around.

"You're crazy," Serge says over his shoulder when setting Tom back down. "But I love you."

"Love ya too, mate," Tom says. "So much."

Serge slaps his bum before leaving the stage. When Tom looks at the crowd, they're still cheering. Still. It doesn't mean anything.

 

 

**6**

 

It happens on a Thursday in Newcastle with no fluffy tail to distract Tom from his duties as a respectable front man.

Okay, who are we kidding, Tom is not the most professional musician to walk this planet, and he's far from behaving well on stage, everyone knows this.

What not everyone knows… well, barely anyone… well, actually, no one… is that Tom's respectable admiring love for Serge has somehow evolved into a full-on, hardcore crush that he's unable to hold back within himself. He has tried to avoid this with all of his willpower, by hiding and making bad choices and being a general arsehole to everyone, but it didn't work. Serge just kept writing love songs for him. It's not that Tom doesn't know Serge loves him to bits, he's saying this at least once a week, and on this tour, probably once a day, really… or twice. Tom tries not to put more meaning into it than there is. Of course they love each other. They've been best friends for more than two decades. They've been through everything they could have possibly been through, they've survived all this, and they're on the peak of everything. Tom has not been this overwhelmed for this many nights in a row in his life. He thought the peak was headlining Glastonbury, after which he'd done and said some stupid things that Serge just went along with, because he was drunk and high on adrenaline, and because he knows better than to say 'Tom doesn't actually mean homosexual, the women are not over' in a live interview.

Tom has gone from hating himself for doing stupid things to not giving a fuck about these stupid things anymore. He just does what he does. He's never been one to back down from affection attacks on stage, and he surely isn't going to do so now, on their biggest tour to date. Who cares that they hug for five minutes straight. Who cares that Tom planks down on Serge after the show. Who cares that Serge has taken on the habit of just lying down on stage. Who cares that Tom straddles and kisses him. Who just fucking cares at all? People love him so much they won't care that he can't love them back. He can only ever love Sergio.

It's a lot easier to concentrate on his job when Serge isn't wearing that stupid bobbing fluffy tail (one of the weirdest fashion choices he's made to date, maybe). When it comes to the end of the show though, when everyone is still 'ah-ahh'ing _L.S.F._ back at them, when Tom has to sit down to catch his breath, when Serge prances around on stage to give Neil – and all the amateur photographers in the crowd – a good picture, when he leaves… Just then, Tom wants to rip his heart out from making the worst decision, like falling in love with his best friend, and who the fuck even thought this was a good idea, for fuck's sake? Why is Mother Nature being a dick making Serge such an irresistible human being? Why do good people like Sergio happen to less worthy people like Tom?

He scrambles to his feet and runs after Serge, wrapping his arms around his friend's waist. God, he's so tall, and so soaked, and so hot… literally. Serge immediately hugs back, kisses him on the top of his head, and it's too much. Too much. Tom turns away, to the crowd, blowing a kiss at them. It's all good. It's all fine. It's all fine for literally two seconds, until Serge's beard is scratching his cheek and he's kissing Tom, hugging him from behind. And Tom is so, so weak, he doesn't even know what to do anymore, so he just runs around on stage a bit, hugging other people, and then thanks the crowd again through the mic. Serge simply plops down at the edge of the stage, like he's planning to stay there for another hour. The urge in Tom to touch him is stronger than ever. Maybe he should have stuck to water tonight. Maybe, however, blaming alcohol on his sex drive is the wrong approach, since Tom thinks about touching Serge when he's sober as well. So, no, alcohol has nothing to do with that. Tom has only himself to blame, really.

He lowers himself behind his best friend, wrapping his arms around him. He kisses the top of Serge's head, breathing in the smell of hairspray, before coming down to kiss the side of his face.

Serge is smiling through all this, Tom can feel it, as well as Serge's hands around his.

"I love you," he mumbles. "I love you so much." Saying it is so easy. He's said it so many times. So, so many times, and it's never been hard, and Serge has always reciprocated, and it's never been a problem at all. The problem is that Tom can't say it in any way to make Serge realise how he actually means it.

Tom kisses his shoulder, nuzzling into it.

"Love ya, too," Serge says with a chuckle and ruffles his hair.

Tom suddenly has a moment of clarity, which often results in doing stupid things, so he gets back up, steps at the microphone, and starts singing the first thing that comes to mind.

"There's nothing you can do that can't be sung…"

Wait, that was wrong. It's 'done', right?

"There's nothing you can do that can't be done…"

Well, this was the first line, actually… god, Tom is actually pretty good at memorising lyrics, but he's so out of everything right now, he couldn't even get the right words together if he wanted to.

"Come on," he says, beckoning the crowd. They probably know it better than him. "What is it? It's eeeeeeeeez-eeeeeeeeeh!"

Serge is standing up, but Tom has to keep this up. At least the chorus is easy enough to remember. After all, all you need is love, isn't it? Isn't it?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sergio leave stage-right. There's nothing that holds him on this stage anymore.

"Good night."

 

Fucking great. Fucking amazing. So good. Wow. Such a good job. Bloody fantastic.

Tom needs to get drunk and find a way to get his mind off all this. The voices don't even reach his ears anymore. Not really. Everyone keeps saying the same things to him. He knows the show was fucking great. He was there. He _made_ it great.

Tom spends an hour pining at Serge and sucking at two beer bottles (the thing with getting drunk is not really working), until Serge walks over to him to sit on the arm of the couch Tom is sitting on.

"Hey, man… I think I'll– I'll head to the hotel, all right?"

"What? Now?" Tom is aghast. "Are you kidding?"

"Nah," Serge says, not really looking at him. "I don't feel like partying, really." He attempts to get up, but Tom wraps his arms around his skinny torso.

"Yer not going anywhere, my friend."

Serge chuckles and runs his hand softly over Tom's back, stroking in big circles over his shoulder blades.

"Don't leave," Tom says, but it comes out a whisper. He doesn't think Serge could have heard it over the humming of everyone's conversations around him, but he did.

"Will I have to drag you with me when I leave?," he asks, making Tom look up at him.

"What if you do?"

"Then I will." He says it like it's the easiest thing in the world. Tom is invited to accompany him to the hotel. Suddenly, the idea of staying here is the most absurd thing in the world.

"Then let's go!"

Tom is quick to jump to his feet at the prospect of having some alone time with his best friend, away from all these people. He craves affection like nothing good right now. It's so hard to resist.

"Wow, I know you're quick to change your mind, but that's surprising even to me," Serge questions. "Where is the party animal I've learned to…uh, gotten to know back then?"

Tom falters for a moment. There's something else Serge had wanted to say.

"I don't know. Let's go." He doesn't really know what else to say to that.

 

It's still early enough that there might be fans waiting in front of the arena somewhere, so they get a taxi. The way to the hotel isn't really long, they could possibly make it in a 15-minute walk, but none of them really feels like seeing anyone right now. At least Tom thinks so. If Serge doesn't feel like partying, he most likely doesn't feel like chatting with strangers. Tom knows him well enough to know this. In the taxi, Serge is already talking about a new song he's started to write. Tom is tempted to tell him to chill for once, they've only just released an album and god, they're still on tour. He's more tempted to stare at Serge a bit more while he's talking, watching every move his hands make, physically forcing his eyes not to drift to Serge's lips too often.

 

They're at the hotel in no time, and Tom spends the lift ride up to their floor thinking up a way to make Serge come to his room or go into Serge's room with him. He usually pretends to fall asleep on Serge's bed when they're not sharing a room, knowing his friend will be too much of a good soul to throw him out so late. If they're in his room, he'll pretend to fall asleep somewhere on top of Serge so that he can't slip out without waking him. It's been a waterproof strategy up until now, but Tom really, _really_ doesn't want Serge to say good night right now.

"You're unusually quiet tonight, Tommy. Are you all right?" Serge is squeezing his shoulder through the coat.

"I reckon, yeah." Tom is still feverishly searching for a solution to this situation.

They get out of the elevator and slowly make their way to the assigned rooms when Tom gets The Idea: he'll pretend to have left his keycard at the venue or the bus. They're in front of Serge's room and start patting their pockets for keycards.

"Oh sh–"

"–wanna come in– uh, what?," Serge stammers.

"What? Yeah."

"What did you wanna say?"

"Nothing. Yeah. Cheers, mate." He can still pretend to have left his keycard in case Serge wants to throw him out later. He steps into the room, which holds a big twin, a bathroom, mini bar and TV next to the obligatory furniture. And balcony. For a second, Tom is thrown back to the night at this house party when Serge had kept score of how many people Tom had kissed.

"I think the rerun of Great British Bake Off is on right now," Serge says, not even bothering to turn on the ceiling light, just the little reading lamp on one side of the bed.

Tom drops down on the bed after throwing his coat onto the table carelessly. Only now he realises how tired he is. But he can't fall asleep in Serge's room just like that, it would be rude. And it's not what Tom is after anyway.

"Sounds like a plan. A horrible plan, but a— ow!" If Tom wasn't expecting anything when he raises his finger to speak with his face still planted on the covers, it was Serge biting him in that very finger.

Tom rolls on his back and tries to glare at Serge. "If I wanted to be bitten I'd have gotten myself a kitten!"

"You're a great songwriter, Tommy," Serge laughs and pulls off Tom's shoes. He flops down next to Tom, who only then realises that he'd made a rhyme.

"C'mon, Tommy, snuggles," Serge suggests and moves to lie on the bed properly. Tom doesn't wait one second to spin 90 degrees and snuggle up to his lovely, quiet Sergio. It's taking him all of his willpower not to look at him but at the TV – he couldn't care less for GBBO, but he's willing to not move too much if that means that Serge will keep stroking his head like he's doing now. It's so relaxing and feeling so good that Tom is afraid he might fall asleep any moment. He can't do this to himself, though. He hasn't shared such an intimate moment with Serge in weeks. They've been travelling and partying too much to ever really calm down and get enough sleep and just have alone time.

Tom thinks he feels Serge's heart rate going up a bit when his hand moves along Serge's side, up and down again, and up and down, until Serge grabs it with his own. Tom doesn't even try to concentrate on the general direction of the telly, he has too much on his mind, too many senses to care about right now. Sergio doesn't protest when Tom interlaces their fingers. He just starts running his thumb along the edge of Tom's index finger, their hands lying loosely next to Serge on the bed.

It's so little, and yet so much. Tom would give everything to live inside Serge's head just for one day, to understand how he functions, to know the things he knows, to find out what he feels when they're alone together like this.

"Are you asleep, Tommy?," Serge asks him after some minutes in which Tom hasn't moved, really. He can't move, he doesn't know how, in which direction, where to put his hands without putting Serge off.

"Nah," he mumbles. Now would be a good time to look at Serge again, which he hasn't done in 8.5 minutes, not that he's keeping count, but he already misses his friend's face. He's way too dependant on this guy. He knows this. But it doesn't mean he can just switch off these stupid feelings that are just all kinds of wrong. You don't fall in love with your best friend, what the hell. Happy endings only happen in movies. Whatever move Tom would make on Sergio would fuck a lot of things up between them. There's literally no easy way out of this, he realises.

Tom shuffles around until his head is not lying on Serge's chest anymore, and reluctantly lets go of his hand as well. He knows trying to get away from Serge is impossible, and ending body contact is not gonna help, really, but it's a start.

"I think I need a fag," Tom says, the urge to get out of this room suddenly very big. He rolls off the bed and goes to find his cigarettes in his coat. There's only one left, but it's better than nothing. Serge is not saying anything.

"Fuck, it's cold," Tom notices upon opening the balcony door, and reconsiders this decision. It would be lame to just crawl back into bed with Serge, and it would only prove that his weakness for this man is bigger than for anything else.

"I was about to say 'come back to bed, it's cold', but that would be horribly cliché, so I won't," Serge says with a smile, but Tom can see it in his eyes that he's not entirely joking.

"So you don't want me to come back to bed?"

Serge falters, like he's somehow gonna regret the next thing he's about to say.

"I do want you. To come back to bed, I mean…"

Tom chuckles and closes the balcony door. "I want youuu," he sings, pointing at Serge while walking over. Where all these Beatles songs come from tonight, he doesn't know. "To come back to b-e-e-ed, it's driving me mad… nah. That's not working out."

Serge just looks at him how he always does: with this complete and utter amused fascination of the things Tom does at random. That slow headshaking, the glimmer in his eye, the choked laugh somewhere in his throat. It's the look exclusively saved for Tom, he's never seen Serge looking at anyone else like that. Sometimes he only does stupid things to make Serge use The Look on him. Because he loves it too much.

"Can I ask you summin?," Serge suddenly questions.

"Uh, of course." Tom sits down on the bed with his back to the telly. He really couldn't care less about random people failing at baking.

"Why _All You Need Is Love_?"

Tom shrugs. "Why not? I dunno." He laughs. "D'you ever question my motives?"

"I've learned not to, most of the time." Serge bites his lower lip. "I was just wonderin', that's all."

"It was 'cos I love you, mate, I thought you knew. Sometimes I'm just overcome by a wave of affection. I don't even know the bloody lyrics."

Tom is sure he's only imagining the flush that's very, very suddenly crept up Serge's cheeks, because there's no reason something like this would make him blush anymore. Or smile weirdly. Which he is.

"What," Tom says, trying to smile, but he probably only manages a fake grimace.

"Nothin'."

"God, Sergio, I know you're deep and all, but I wish your waters were less still." Tom sighs. He also wishes Serge wouldn't be lying there so irresistibly spread out with those trousers to tight and that stupid shirt ridden up to expose his hipbones. Mother Nature was definitely too good to him.

"Haha, what?" Serge looks at him strangely.

He did not just say that out loud. Did he?

"Hmm?" Tom puts on his most innocent face.

"Mother Nature was too good to me?"

"Yes?" Tom nods. There's really no clever way out of this one. "Look at you. Disgusting. Who told you this was okay?"

"Whaaaa…"

God, Sergio is an intelligent fella, but sometimes he's a bit slow.

"I'm being sarcastic, love. Nothin' about you is disgusting. Except maybe your choice in telly shows." Tom grabs the remote control and mutes the TV. He sprawls next to his friend, stretching out on his back with his arms over his head. Which is, admittedly, a bad idea. 

"You wanna turn this off? Because bitch, it's on!" Oh no. You don't insult Sergio's taste in TV without getting some kind of punishment. Which, in this case, is a mean tickle attack. Tom hasn't had the pleasure to enjoy one of these in years, and Serge just keeps getting stronger, and no one knows where in his bony body this strength is supposed to hide.

"No-noo," Tom gasps as Serge's fingers crawl over his sides. Tom is terribly ticklish, but he never thought this would come in handy. Serge is already straddling him, fingers everywhere, on his ribs, under his arms, at his neck, they're too fast for Tom to follow. All he can do is squirm and beg and laugh too much. Tickling used to be a torturing method. This is far from torture. The only torture is Sergio sitting on his damn crotch, which is maybe not the best place for him to be sitting right now…

"Please… pl–" Tom is gasping for air, still laughing, until he realises that Serge has pulled up his shirt far enough to get his hands under it. Jesus. Has Serge not noticed this? Is this an especially mean method of punishing? Does he not realise what this does to Tom?

"Y-you know wha'?"

Serge stops dead in his tracks, hands still under Tom's shirt. Which only now seems to dawn on him.

"I prefer your oldest punishment method," it slips out of Tom, because he always has to say the wrong things at the worst moments.

"W-which one?" Serge is already pulling his hands out from under the shirt, but Tom won't have any of this and pushes them back in place at the sides of his waist.

"The one where I liked cherry flavour a bit too much."

And Serge flushes, deep red. "It… it didn't mean anything," he says.

"Jeez Sergio, I know. Does this?"

"What?"

"All this." Tom's hands make their way up, slowly stroking Serge's forearms. "Does this mean anything to you?"

Serge swallows. His hands are not moving, and neither is anything else, really.

"What d'you mean?," he asks.

Tom does his best not to sigh. "To me it means everything, all right? Everything we do on stage? Means a lot. Havin' alone time? Means so much. Every time you kiss me randomly? Means everything. Even that fuckin' mistletoe kiss meant something, fuckin' hell, and that's so long ago I barely remember… everything we do means the world to m–"

Sergio's lips are on his before the sentence is even finished. Tom freezes for the split second it takes him to realise that it's happening, really, actually, happening, and that it's not like that fucking lipstick kiss all those years back, or that random kiss on the balcony, or even the mistletoe kiss that meant nothing and yet meant so much. It's not like that at all, it's different because Serge is taking Tom's bottom lip between his, because his hands are under Tom's shirt and because he can hear Serge's heart hammering against his chest, which should not be anatomically possible. It's different because when Tom buries his fingers in Serge's hair it makes him wince. It's different because Tom's tongue finds Serge's and it makes him dizzy just thinking about it. It's different because Serge doesn't taste like pretzel sticks or cherry lipstick or Gin and Tonic or sweat or summer, he tastes like nothing in particular, just himself, and Tom decides that it's his favourite taste in the world. And then he just stops thinking. He must enjoy this moment with all his senses, in case he will never feel this way again. And just as this thought has formed in his head, he feels Serge slowly retreating both from under his shirt and from his lips.

"Sorry," he mumbles, staring at Tom with eyes much too big and frightened for a situation like this. "That was–"

"–perfect." Tom keeps holding on to Serge's head.

"Wha'?"

"That was perfect and overdue," Tom simply says. "Right?" He withdraws one hand from Serge's hair and checks his heartbeat. It's still much too fast.

"Yeah."

"And does it mean anything to you?"

"Yeah."

"Then where's the problem?"

Serge is still staring, like he can't believe Tom actually wants this.

"Do you even want this?" It hurts that he even has to ask, but maybe Serge is just in shock.

But Sergio nods, and whispers 'yes', whispers 'so much', and then they're kissing again, slowly, deeply, thoroughly. Serge lowers himself on Tom carefully, weight comfortably lifted from his crotch, and they roll to their sides. Serge wraps his arms around Tom tightly, so tightly Tom is forced to leave his hand where it's been lying on Serge's chest, covering his heart. It's entirely, a hundred percent the right feeling, the right moment, they're sober (mostly), they're alone, they're healthy, they're warm. Tom knows it will take him days, if not months to realise what's happening, what's starting here right now. Sergio pushes his knee between Tom's, and he could swear his arms are going around Tom's whole body, and maybe they are. He's entirely wrapped up in Serge's embrace, and breathing is hard, but he couldn't care less. Tom keeps running his free index finger over Serge's cheekbone, through his beard, up his jaw, his hand crawling into his neck to pull him an impossible bit closer.

Tom feels like a teenager again, he's been in this situation often enough to be sure this is better than any sudden burst of passion with ripping clothes in order to get them off as soon as possible. He enjoys that too, mind. That and making out against walls and being carelessly loud. But that's not the kind of intimacy he's been craving with Sergio. Not mainly, that is. Sergio is a gentle, slow, quiet lover, and that's an absolutely welcoming change to most of the crazy experiences Tom has had so far.

Slowly, Serge loosens his lips from Tom's, still staying as close as possible. His breath is warm on Tom's face. He softly bumps his nose against Tom's, making him smile.

"Hey," Tom whispers. Sergio opens his eyes. God, they're beautiful.

"Hey," he replies and casts down his eyes again. Tom will never grasp how the length of his eyelashes is even possible. His fingers find Serge's lips, lightly leaning against them. Serge presses a gentle kiss against his fingertips before boldly biting the tip of his index finger – again.

Tom chuckles. "Kitten," he mumbles, but moves his hand under Serge's chin to make him look back up.

He could get lost in those eyes.

"I love you."

He whispers his words, softly spoken, and with the most sincerity.

"I know."

"I mean–"

"–I know."

Tom says nothing more. Serge knows. Has known. Tom is not sure, what.

"I didn't know until you said it. But then I knew."

"Said what?"

They're a bit too close for a conversation like this, but Serge is not loosening his grip around him one bit.

"That it meant something."

"It did."

"It did. Still does. I've loved you since I met you, Tommy."

"At eleven years old?"

"Yeah. You were not from this planet. Probably still aren't. Couldn't get away from you. Still can't. Obviously. Didn't know what it meant. Just knew I didn't like you kissin' everyone but me."

Tom gapes. _That_ long?

"You're crazy," Tom says, "but I love you. I mean it."

Sergio's smile is soft. He presses Tom closer to his body, if possible, and kisses him once. 

"You mean everything."

 


End file.
